


Long way home

by XCuteAsHale



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abused Stiles, Bad Parent Sheriff Stilinski, Biker AU, Biker Chris, Child Abuse, M/M, More tags to follow, Runaway Stiles, biker peter, more ships to follow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22134691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/XCuteAsHale/pseuds/XCuteAsHale
Summary: Stiles knew it wasn't always like this, that his father didn't always hate him, that he didn't always need to hide from fists and angry words, but for every day that passes the knowledge feels less certain. A poster in the town library changes everything, and Stiles realizes that he has to get out. After two years of saving and keeping his head down, he finally packs his backpack and leaves Beacon Hills - and his father - behind. But running away isn't a sustainable choice, and everyone needs a place to call home.
Relationships: Chris Argent/Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 31
Kudos: 371





	1. Prologue

"I got a call from your teacher today," His father's voice sounds so calm, as he leans in the doorway to Stiles' room, one foot over the other, "she said you missed class. Again."

Fear prickled down Stiles' spine, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. His father's voice may have been calm, and his body may have been relaxed, but Stiles had seen too many times how fast that could change, bore the scars to prove how easily the older man struck like a rattlesnake. He turned in his chair to face the man, eyes attached near his cheekbone, back straight.

"Yeah, I had to take Scott to the nurses office," he begins, "some girl wore too much perfume today so his asthma kicked in really bad." He doesn't say anything about the knowing, pitying look the nurse gave him, doesn't say anything about how Scott's wheezing breaths scared him nearly as much as his father does now. He knows that there's no point, that his dad won't wanna hear it.

"And taking him to the nurses office made you miss an entire class, huh?" his father says.

Years worth of experience is the only thing keeping Stiles from flinching at the coldness in his father's voice, and he resigns himself to what he knows is coming, to the pain and blood and tears.

"Yes, sir"

There is nothing else to say, no way to deny it, not when he can smell the whiskey from his dad all the way from the doorway, not when he can see the clenching of his dad's jaw.

Knowing what's coming is one thing, but Stiles still finds himself flinching when it comes.

"Is this all a joke to you?", his father demands with a rising voice, "Do you have any idea how lucky you are to even be able to go to school? To have a roof over your head, food on the table, with the only demand for it being that you actually show up for your classes?" Taking a step into the room, John's voice continues rising in volume, "Is this all a joke to you? Or are you simply trying to make me look bad? What kind of sheriff do you think people will think I am if I can't even control my own kid, huh? Is that what it is?"

Sitting in his chair, Stiles can't help but feel paralyzed by the fear of his father's temper, unable to do anything but sit there and listen to the words thrown at him like barbed wire. Tears are burning at the back of his eyes, but he knows that it'll only be worse if he cries, what kind of a man is he supposed to be if he can't even handle someone talking to him?

"Are you even listening to me, boy?!" John shouts, his face red and twisted into something almost inhumane. He's only two steps away now, fist already raised, and Stiles can see it coming from a mile away, "Isn't it bad enough that you killed your mother, that you took her away from me, so now you need to do everything in your power to undermine me too?!"

The words feel like a fist to the sternum, knocking the air out of his lungs, because no matter how many times Stiles hears them, no matter how false he knows them to be, it still  _ hurts _ .

It doesn't take more than a blink for him to feel his father's hand in his hair, pulling him forcefully from the chair and onto the floor. Stiles lands with a thump and for a second he swears he can feel the hairs being pulled out of his scalp, and then his father's fist connects with his face. The first punch catches him straight in the mouth, splitting his lip, and Stiles nearly chokes on the blood filling his mouth, and he instinctively turns his face to the side. The second punch connects with his cheek, forcing his face further into the floor, before the third and fourth punch comes in quick sessions, and then he's being dragged up by his hair again.

"Do I have to teach you everything, haven't you learned shit in your life? I have met toddlers with more respect than you, you ungrateful brat," his father shouts as he shakes Stiles' head, "You're nothing more than an selfish little shit, always putting yourself first, falling to your every whim, never thinking about the consequences!"

When Stiles' head connects with the floor again dark spots start swimming in front of his eyes, and he wishes so badly that he'd simply black out, or even that his father will just hit him  _ too _ hard, that he'll end it all. He knows he's crying now, small pleading sounds that would be words if it weren't for the tears, for the blood in his mouth, whimpering with each blow to his face. His father is still shouting, throwing insults and scorn, and Stiles just wants to get away from it all. He doesn’t know how long it keeps going, loses count of the blows, before his father straightens up with a disgusted look on his face. With a hard kick to Stiles’ ribs the man takes his leave, leaving Stiles to curl up into a shaking ball, sobs wrecking his body.

He knows it wasn’t always like this, that his father wasn’t always so cruel, that Stiles wasn’t always such a disappointment, such a waste of air and space, but that time is getting harder and harder to remember for each day that passes. He lies there long after his dad has left, long after he hears his father’s bedroom door slam shut, until he’s certain that the man’s well and truly passed out.  Only then does he dare move, winching when his ribs protest, trying his best to ignore the way his entire face seems to throb in beat with his heart. Stumbling out of his room he wonders if this is what God intended when He created him, if his fate here in life was decided by the time he was conceived. By the time he reached the bathroom and looked himself in the mirror, his mind turned blank. His face was a mess. The left side of his face was red from being repeatedly pushed to the floor, his bottom lip split at both corners. The worst was the right side of his face. His right cheek was already darkening with bruises, his eye almost swollen shut, and there were cuts from where his father's knuckles had split the skin. He cleaned himself up with the best of his ability, dabbing a wet cloth carefully over the worst of the blood trails. 

Dragging himself back to his bedroom, Stiles thought about what excuse he should use in school the next day, what he would say when people asked - because they always asked, even if they never cared about the answer. He couldn't say that he fell down the stairs, not again, he'd already used that one twice in the past three months. Maybe he could say that a can of tomatoes fell down on his face when he opened the cabinet? By the time he settled down in bed he was nowhere closer to an answer, his mind still reeling from his father's outburst. He knew that he shouldn't have missed class, it had been a stupid thing to do, and his dad was simply trying his best to make sure that Stiles got the education he needed. It would have been what his mother would have wanted - she was always so focused on him staying on top of his grades, before she got sick. In between one thought and the other, Stiles' body shut down, and he fell into a fitful sleep.

Waking up the next morning he felt like death warmed over, his face throbbing and ribs hurting with every breath he took. The idea of skipping school was tempting, but he knew that yesterday's outburst would be a piece of cake compared to what would happen if he did. Dragging himself out of bed felt like it took forever, and by the time he got into the bathroom, he still didn't feel any more energized. Looking at his face reflected back in the mirror he couldn't help but wince. The swelling would be a bitch to hide, so he didn't even try, but he did carefully pat on concealer, brushing over it with a dense powder. It had taken him several months to figure out the right way to blend the makeup right, to figure out the right shade to suit his skin, the right way to use colors to hide the bruises. For a second he even considered leaving his skin bare to view, to let them all see the bruises, the swelling, the pain, but he knew that if he did that his father would kill him, that the shame would make him want to kill himself. His movements were slow, and raising his arm too high made his ribs smart, but Stiles' mind was chaotic.

By the time he finished he only had 15 minutes to get to school, and the panic the idea of a tardy note gave him the adrenaline shot he needed to run out of the house and jump on his bike. Scott met him halfway on his own bike, an easy grin on his face, and for a second Stiles resented him a bit. The thought ran a shot of shame through his veins, and Stiles forced himself to smile back. When they finally parked their bikes outside of the school, Stiles realized the second Scott got a good look at his face.

"Dude! What happened to your face, are you okay?" Scott demanded, his voice thick with worry.

"I'm fine," Stiles said, forcing another smile on his face as they started walking towards their first class, "I had to get up to take a piss last night and I forgot to turn on the lights, so I stumbled on some clothes and managed to introduce my face to my floor."

Scott only laughed, talking about how his clumsiness would one day have him break his own neck, before he switched the subject over to how rumors had it that Harris had managed to make a girl cry during one of his classes. Stiles nodded along. He could do this. He could act as if his insides weren't twisted into knots, like his eyes weren't burning and his brain wasn't scrambled. He knew the routine, knew that his body and mind needed to settle, knew that in a couple of days things would be better, he would be able to breathe again.

\---

Two days later everything changed.

Stiles was at the library, looking for a book that looked interesting enough to keep his attention for long enough that he could write a paper on it. His english teacher, Mrs.Flint, was out on sick-leave, leaving Bobby Finstock to substitute. The erratic man hadn't even known what class he was subbing for, simply throwing out an order to write a paper on a book ("Which book? I don't know, some book, I assume the library still exists!"), before starting an hour long rant about the lack of skills of the lacrosse team. Thus Stiles found himself standing in the library. He had always found some sort of comfort there, a peace in the strange silence, the smell of books shutting out every other input. Walking slowly he dragged his fingers over battered spines, walking past the house-wife porn with their violently handsome men in ripped white shirts with gorgeous thin women hanging in their arms; past the cyclopedias and biographies, past the children's books with their brightly colored covers.

He slowly made his way towards the section for young adult books, intending to grab the first fantasy novel that looked like it could help his mind still, sending him into a world of dragons and elves and magic.

Rounding the corner he stopped in his tracks when his eyes landed on a poster on the wall. It pictured a young boy with duct tape over his mouth and bruises under his eyes. In a bold black text underneath the words "I TRIED TO TELL HIM I'M SORRY" stood out, and Stiles could see that there were more text underneath, but he couldn't stop staring at the boy. He knew it was probably photoshopped, that the boy most likely had good parents who loved him, who never got too drunk, too angry, and that he probably wasn't scared shitless with every breath he took in his own home. And that was how it was supposed to be, wasn't it? The kid deserved a good home, a stable home, because he was just a kid. His breaths came in wheezing pants, his vision blurry, and he had to get out of there.

  
  


The rest of his day passed in blurry motions, and even if someone pulled a gun to his head, Stiles would never be able to tell them what happened after he left the library. When he settled down in bed that night, he couldn't shake the picture of the boy out of his head. Stiles had never been one to believe in destiny, and his relationship with God had been shaky at best since his mom died - how could God be real if He let Stiles' mom die? What kind of God did such a thing? - but he couldn't shake the feeling that he was somehow meant to see that poster. Maybe he was meant to do something, anything, to end the circle he found himself in. But what could he do? What was he supposed to do? Knowing that he wouldn't be able to sleep until he had some answers, he stumbled over to his desk and booted up his computer.

Staring at the blinking line in the google search bar Stiles realized he didn't know what he was supposed to search for - what words he could possibly use to describe the situation he found himself in.

_ My dad hits me and then we go about it like nothing afterwards _

_ My dad blames me for my mothers death and so do I _

In the end he asked google the same question he'd spent the entire night asking himself; Am I being abused?

The more he read, the more dread started filling his body. It was one thing to know somewhere deep inside you that your dad wasn't supposed to get shitfaced drunk and beat you to a bloody pulp, but it was something else entirely to see it black on white, to see the words abuse, abused child-syndrome. The more he read, the sicker he felt, and by the time he checked the time he realized he'd been reading for three hours straight. So far he'd realized two things; he was being physically and emotionally abused by his dad, and he needed to get out of it.

He knew he couldn't tell anyone - who in the world would believe him if he did? His dad's popularity vote was off the charts, people found him charming and witty, and they pitied him for losing his wife, found him brave for raising his son alone. Who would believe that the same man who did his best to keep the crime rates of Beacon Hills down went home and got drunk enough to beat his son. Stiles knew he wouldn't be believed, and he didn't have any evidence to support his claim, not with how every bruise and scrape had been explained away. That only left one option - he had to skip town. His endless searching had shown him that running away wasn't as easy as the tragic YA books wanted it to seem like. It wasn't just about packing his backpack and walking out the door. He needed to prepare. He needed money.

He started saving all the lunch money his father gave him when the older man was in a good mood, and started taking a dollar or two out of his father's wallet when the man was passed out drunk. He wanted to get a job to help him save up faster, but no one would hire a spastic fifteen year old, not without parental consent, and there was no way his father could know.


	2. Chapter 1

It took Stiles two years, two years of beatings and fear and panic attacks, two years of lying and fake smiling, but he managed to save up the money he needed, keeping them hidden in a jar in the preserve, buried underneath the ground near the river, safe and sound. He knew that he couldn't live off it forever, but the 2 grand he managed to save up and hide away felt like millions, and Stiles was certain that he could find a job somewhere down the line when money started running thin. There would always be a need for a busboy, or someone to work tables and the dishwasher at diners, some job willing to pay under the table.

Now everything came down to finding the perfect timing to run, and the opportunity presented itself easier than Stiles imagined it would, in the shape of his father drinking himself unconscious before Stiles even managed to get home from school on a Friday afternoon. Knowing that it was now or never, Stiles quietly emptied his backpack on his bed, knowing that his school books wouldn't be needed anymore. He had a mental checklist of what he'd need, re-visited and re-written in his mind dozens of times, and it didn't take him more than twenty minutes to pack.

Two changes of clothes, a pocket knife and a multi tool, a blanket and two boxes of granola bars, and his mother's shabbos candle holders, the only real connection he had to his mom, to his faith. Throwing his backpack over his shoulder, Stiles marveled over how light it was, how his entire life could now fit in a school bag on his back. Walking out the door was easy, locking it behind him and dropping his keys underneath the mat, it felt like he was taking his first breath in years. He jumped on his bike and drove it out to the preserve to collect the money, stashing it in his underwear for safe keeps, before heading to the bus station. Whilst he wanted to revel in the freedom of his escape, he knew that there would be no controlling how long it would be before his father realized he was gone, and Stiles knew that he needed to be as far away as possible before then.

He bought a ticket from a bored looking girl just a couple of years older than him, and he realized that even though she didn't know it yet, she had just saved his life. He left his bike without locking it up, and threw his phone in a trashcan as he passed.

At 5.28pm Stiles jumped on the first bus going north.

Imagining leaving his life behind had been easy, getting lost in the fantasy of finally escaping the gut retching anxiety every time his dad came home, finally going somewhere people would appreciate him - and more importantly, where no one would ever hurt him again. At 5.32pm Stiles realized why he stopped believing in fairy tales after his mother died, sitting in an uncomfortable mid-aisle seat on a crowded bus, his breath wheezing in his lungs. Thoughts milled around his head faster than he could control them, and scenario after scenario of things that could - and most likely  _ would _ \- go wrong played before his eyes. What if he miscalculated how drunk his dad was when he left? What if the man woke up sooner than Stiles had realized, and what if he realized that Stiles was gone, what if he found him before Stiles even crossed city limits? His dad would be so mad. Stiles could easily imagine the repercussions his actions would have, could practically feel the blows that the sheriff would deem a suitable consequences for his run-away trial and fiasco.

Forcing himself to take a deep breath, Stiles tried to remember the lessons his school counselor had taught him after his mom died, how to breathe in sevens, and ground himself with all his senses.

He could see the back of the seat in front of him clearly, the faded and worn pattern almost entirely gone. He could hear the woman sitting two seats to his right front shushing her children as they started singing about how the wheels on the bus goes round and round. He could taste blood in his mouth. He could feel the kid sitting behind him kicking the back of his seat.

The exercise took longer than he realized, and by the time his mind started slowing down, and his heart didn't feel like it would jump out of his chest any more, the bus had already left city borders. The kids in the front had moved on to singing various attempts at Disney songs, words getting scrambled, tunes hummed when their memories left them. The kid in the back was  _ still _ kicking at Stiles' seat, and he had half a mind to turn around and tell them off, if it hadn't been for the fact that he was pretty sure he would scare them to death with how his face looked.

By the time they made it to Stockton, Stiles was ready to commit murder to escape the children he'd been stuck with. How the parents could ever have imagined that bringing children on a bus ride like that, would forever be a mystery to him, and as he stumbled off the bus, he vowed to himself to either never have children, or to at least invest in a freaking minivan. Exhaustion was wearing on his body, and despite the fact that every single bone in his body was screaming at him to find rest, Stiles stumbled towards the ticket machine and got a ticket to the next 703 going out of town.

With all his research on how to run away from home, one of the biggest recurring things, besides not running in the first place, was to always keep a goal in mind - it would be too easy to succumb to the darker and more dangerous parts of the world if he didn't have anywhere he intended to go. At first he thought about Mexico, of running towards the heat and sure employment he would find there, either as a busboy or a helping hand at some tourist attraction, but the knowledge that his father was sure to issue an amber alert for him had thrown that idea out. The same went for heading up north to Canada. Getting across the border as an unaccompanied minor would be difficult at best - but getting across them as an unaccompanied minor with an amber alert out with his name on it would be impossible. Knowing that escaping the country in its whole was out of the question, Stiles had started looking at different small towns, and even some of the bigger cities, before he found the place he was sure he could fit into. Alaska might have been cold and dreary, and life there would certainly be tougher than anything he'd had to go through before, but he knew it would be one of the last places his dad would look for him. The route itself had been easy enough to figure out, searching for busses and looking at prices, and he was sure that he could afford the trip if he was careful with his spending, and if he was willing to hitchhike parts of the way.

Stumbling into the 703, this one thankfully without any children occupying it, Stiles let his body and mind shut off, falling into an unrestful sleep as he clutched his backpack on his lap. His sleep was short-lived, and after what felt simply like a long blink, the voice of the driver gruffly announced their arrival to Lodi. Despite his legs feeling like they'd been weighed down with balls and chains, Stiles was the first one off the bus. He had a greyhound to reach.

\---

Reaching Reno was something Stiles could only describe as that scene in The Shawshank Redemption where Tim Robbins' character raises his arms at the feeling of the rain of freedom once more. The relief of knowing for certain that he was finally out of California, out of his father's county, and all the way in Nevada gave him the extra energy he needed to sling his backpack over his shoulder and start walking.

  
  


The city was still in its early morning rest - the rush of everyday life had yet to start, and for the first time since he started thinking about leaving, Stiles found himself faced with the knowledge that he didn't know where to go or what to do. The next bus out of town wouldn't leave until the next morning, and while a small voice in his head said that he was currently holding all the money in the world, he knew that he couldn't afford to waste it. Two grand might seem like an amazing feat, and maybe it even was, but it wouldn't get him to Alaska unless he was careful. But getting a room at one of the many motels in the city wouldn't hurt, would it?

With something resembling a minor goal in his mind, Stiles could feel the jitters settle back down, even though he knew that they were just waiting for the right time to rush back to the surface. Letting out a soft breath of air, he straightened his pack, before making his way out from the bus station.

Stopping the first lady he saw, Stiles was quickly pointed in the direction of Washoe county library, the lady muttering something about it only being a short ten minute walk. He walked quickly, and smiled to himself when he got there in eight. Thankfully the library had computers that were open to the public, and Stiles' fingers itched to get his hands on one, and rounding the corner he was excited to see that there was one available. He jumped on it like a voucher. He quickly found a cheap motel just outside of town, and despite the fact that it seemed to be in a sketchy neighborhood, it was cheap and several of the reviews noted how they didn't ask for ID. It didn't take him long to find the motel, and shifting slightly in his seat, Stiles couldn't help but bring up the Beacon Daily's homepage.

He skimmed the entire news paper, even going as far as to use the search bar, but there wasn't a single mention of him. Stiles felt like a fist had knocked him in the stomach. Either his dad hadn't noticed that he was gone yet, which should be a good thing, it should be great because that only elevated Stiles' chance of getting away, or - or he had noticed, but he hadn't cared to report it. He even tried googling his name, but he only came up with results of his facebook - which he now regretted having set to private, and didn't dare log into - and a mention of him in the beacon high paper.

  
  
  


His fingers were shaking above the keyboard, and he could feel the air twisting inside his lungs. In all of his fantasies, all of his dreams and thoughts of running, he'd considered every possible outcome. He had thought about his father finding him, about the man hugging him close and begging Stiles to come home, begging his son's forgiveness. He'd imagined his father furious, with cruel words and harsh hands. He'd imagined pain. Love. Even death. But Stiles had never imagined apathy, hadn't considered that his father wouldn't even bother looking for his only son, his only child. A sharp pain brought him back to reality, and he noticed he'd bitten a small wound into his bottom lip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I get that some of you might be annoyed because Stiles has *still* to meet the rugged biker crew that sums up the Hales (plus one Argent), but he will meet them soon, I promise. First we just need to break him some more. 
> 
> Stay safe in the convid-19 crisis that is upon the world, people! Social distancing, washing your hands, and staying home is important, but remember to maintain your mental health in all this shit too!

**Author's Note:**

> Join me in [Hell](https://discord.gg/W9qXnWa)


End file.
